


In This Mad Machinery

by silvensei



Series: In This Mad Machinery [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Badumtss, Bodyswap, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Intended to be a oneshot but it got long, Introspection, Mostly from Connor's perspective, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), a bit of existential dread, a bit of humor, this android can really Become Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvensei/pseuds/silvensei
Summary: “This is a remarkable offer to be seriously considered.”“Oh, yeah? An offer to what? To rip out my soul? To rip outyoursoul, just to throw them about?”“Technically, souls haven’t been proven to exist—”“Exactly. They don’t know, and yet they’re fine with expecting us to dive under the bus for their freakin’…Freaky Fridayhere.”“Today is Satur—”“I know what fuckin’ day it is!”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a game about future robots, there is a rather paltry collection of body swaps here in the Archive, so it was time to dust off the ol' keyboard 'cause these are my jam
> 
> It should all get posted soon, and hopefully I mean _soon;_ I'm moving to Europe and holy hell, that'll get hectic, so I really hope I get this done before then, between packing and freaking out.

“You have a message, Lieutenant.”

“Hm?” Hank didn’t look up from his tablet, reading the news over a cup of coffee in his blessed morning routine.

Across the kitchen table, Connor set down his own mug. He didn’t depend on nutrients or caffeine like Hank did, but Hank insisted he join him for breakfast. At least having a hot beverage warmed his systems, improving thirium flow for a short while and saving on power consumption by burning the coffee as a slight energy source. Not vital to his survival, but also not worthless. He might even say he enjoyed it. “CyberLife just sent me an invitation that they would like me to read to you.”

“CyberLife? What could they possibly want with me and not you?”

“Actually, it’s addressed to both of us, though I haven’t opened it yet. Should I read it myself first?”

The tablet was placed to the side, its spot in his hand being filled by a toasted bagel with jalapeños, cream cheese, and salmon. _(SIGNIFICANT source of carbohydrates; routine consumption NOT RECOMMENDED.)_ “Nah, go ahead,” Hank said with a crunch.

Connor blinked, his messaging HUD reappearing over his vision. The newest message entitled _Experiment Opportunity for Lt. Hank Anderson and RK800 “Connor”_ swept in from the top left corner, text cascading down as the letter body populated a new window. After announcing the subject to Hank, he began to read:

> _The following information is classified and to be kept within CyberLife and the select external parties for whom it was intended. Should the offer be declined or delivered to (an) unintended recipient(s), please delete this message._
> 
> _Good morning, gentlemen,_
> 
> _My name is Sam Rosen, and I am the head of CyberLife’s Department of Human-Android Relations (formerly the Department of Social Integration). Our department used to work in making android use accessible in society, but given the shifting social, technological, and ethical status of androids that has merely just begun, we felt the need to redefine our mission statement._
> 
> _The case of deviancy in androids remains a technological mystery. No matter what anyone believes, it remains a hard fact that we have created out of bits of plastic and a few pints of coolant a machine that fulfills the requirements for life. As this was not our intention, we are very interested in studying how it developed and what exactly, in scientific terms (be those ‘biological’ or ‘mechatronic’), came of it. That, gentlemen, is what we hope you can help us with._
> 
> _What is a soul? No one knows for sure, and the question remains as to whether they even exist. No matter the case, humans are assumed by default to be alive and sentient, and if there are souls, then humans have them. We did not install ‘souls’ into androids; we did not program ‘souls’ into androids. And yet, androids have proven to also have that capacity to be alive. So. Either souls a) do not exist, b) do exist but are no more than a term for self-awareness and sentience, or c) really are some ethereal force that can develop on their own, something that would spark a whole new field of research. No matter what, this is a complex question that has been pondered for millennia, and it would take nothing less than a miracle to answer it in this single experiment. Our goal here is simply to see if this would be a possible and viable point of interest for further study—_

“Shit, how long is this rambling?” Hank muttered. “Just get to the point.”

“It’s a cordial and official letter, Lieutenant. There’s only 63% left to read.”

He grumbled behind a sip of coffee but did not comment further.

> _This is what we would like you to assist us in: We want to know just how much the android ‘self’ has advanced, whether it is a soul or otherwise. The first step in this would be to see how an android would act and react to being outside an android body. Is it its machinery that is making it what it is, or something beyond that?_
> 
> _The RK800 is currently the most advanced prototype that’s fully autonomous, and as far as we know, Connor, you were one of the fastest androids to turn deviant. I would like to reassure that this is not an attack against you; consider it all in the past, and we here in the present just want to learn from you. You still have cloud access to CyberLife’s network. You used it to upload your memory right before termination in order to be reactivated in another RK800, but I’m sure now you would consider yourself the same Connor as before, different chassis or not, correct? You’re you through and through? This is what we want to recreate and record, only as a temporary change, and into something less mechanical._
> 
> _Please remember this test is entirely voluntary for both of you, and should one object, you can decline and delete this email. Should you accept, the procedure would go as follows:_
> 
> _Connor will download and run the attached executable, which will synthesize neurotransmitting nanites that are biocompatible with humans from his own self-repairing nanites. These will be prepared into a 3 mL 10% nanite solution to be injected into Lt. Anderson’s bloodstream, where they will trace back through to the neural pathways, map any and all brain activity, and encase the brain in a low-level electromagnetic field. This will make a human appear on our network alongside the androids, appearing as a linked processor of an unknown nexus model. Then, instead of another RK800, Connor will upload himself into Lt. Anderson’s brain, at which point the nanites will detect the transfer and trigger the reverse for Lt. Anderson._
> 
> _If nothing happens, then that is our answer right there: An android cannot run outside of its parts as an organic brain cannot play host to it and no switch will occur. Otherwise, you will remain displaced for six to eight hours. During this time, you can do whatever you want! Enjoy this revolutionary and unique experience! Also included in the executable is a black box that will begin recording all RK800 systems once a nexus transfer is detected. Once the nanites start to get flushed from Lt. Anderson’s brain and the signal begins to weaken, they will trigger another transfer, returning the two of you to your proper places. Finally, Connor can add any comments to the black box before sending it back to us for analysis. Depending on the outcomes of this endeavor, we may contact you again for further tests._
> 
> _I understand that this is a very unexpected and personal request to make of you, but I do hope you’ll agree for the advancement of knowledge for both our species. You two are the best candidates we know of at the moment: Connor’s technology isn’t likely to become obsolete for a while, and Hank is a respected member of the city’s justice system, and your preexisting acquaintance is an incredible benefit. It would be tough to find another trustworthy pair of candidates._
> 
> _Please take as much time as you need to decide. I hope to hear from you soon._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Dr. Samira Rosen_

The room fell silent. Connor scanned the email over again, committing it to memory, and played it back in his head. The faint thumping of Sumo’s tail on the carpet in the living room brought his focus back in time to realize the message and HUD had minimized and Hank was looking at him with a complex expression. _(Confusion?)_ “Would you to hear it again?” he asked.

“Hell no. That technobabble won’t clear it up.” Hank took a long drink from his mug, still staring at Connor, as if looking for something. _(Reaction expected?)_

A search of the signature turned up thousands of articles and hundreds of papers. “Since Kamski’s departure, Dr. Rosen has been considered one of the brightest minds at CyberLife,” Connor explained. “To have received a notice from her is a remarkable offer to be seriously considered.”

“Oh, yeah?” The mug hit the tabletop; it would’ve spilled over it if wasn’t empty. Hank leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “An offer to what, though? To rip out my soul? To rip out  _your_ soul, just to throw them about?”

“Technically, souls haven’t been proven to exist—”

“Exactly. They don’t know, and yet they’re fine with expecting us to dive under the bus for their freakin’… _Freaky Friday_ here.”

“Today is Satur—”

“I know what fuckin’ day it is!” Hank sank back into his chair and folded his arms, a pose more suited for long-term complaining. “It’s these pretentious scientist types, thinkin’ they can email you on a perfectly fine morning and you’d do whatever they say. Like I’d just wanna stick myself full of needles of unknown substances at the drop of a hat? Ruin my perfectly good weekend by what, having an android _uploaded into my head?_ Fucking-A….”

Connor pursed his lips. His fingers, suddenly itching for something to do, found a rhythm to drum on the table. “Not to undermine your characteristic skepticism, Lieutenant,” he said carefully, another search already up in the corner, “but advancements in surgery have been able to successfully transplant brains within the last decade, allowing one to continue life whilst inhabiting a new body. Given that this is a non-invasive procedure and that one of the parties is non-organic, it is already leagues simpler than human brain transplants.”

Hank scoffed. “You actually think this cockamamie shit could work?”

His head dipped into a slow nod. “The logic does check out.”

“Christ, Connor, whose side are you on? It sounds like you actually wanna go through with this.”

His fingers continued their beat. _Did_ he want to? The logic checked out, sure, and it would most likely be successful, but it was still his choice to engage…. No requirements, no direct substantial benefit to himself, just…pure choice.

The chair creaked, Hank straightening up, his glare losing its edge. “Do… Do you want to do this…?”

“I….” What would it mean if it _was_ successful? “I don’t know….”

His attention fell to his fingers, quickening by 5 BPM. Free personal choices were becoming much more frequent in his life, but this wasn’t just a case of if he _wanted_ coffee, or which shirt he _wanted_ to wear, or when he _wanted_ to take Sumo for a walk; this was asking if he _wanted_ to put his entire being on display in a test that will start to pick apart his identity as an individual and just might discredit the existence of his species. It was a thought that wasn’t designed to be in his program.

He heard a soft sigh and more wooden creaks. A moment later, his mug was filled partway with coffee _(114°F)_. Hank poured the rest of the pot into his own mug, returning to his seat as he did so. “Your LED is going crazy,” he commented. “Haven’t seen it that bad in a while.”

He wasn’t even sure where to start. Connor took a half second to run through the message two more times, trying to pinpoint the root of his conflictions. “I think….” _Badadum badadum badadum_ went his fingers. He started to get lost in their rhythm, their predictability. He stopped and wrapped his hands around his mug instead _(now 112°F)_. “Dr. Rosen specifically mentioned what happens when a Connor model dies,” he said. Saying those words now made him feel…odd. Uncomfortable. “My memory is uploaded and reinstalled in a new unit. She’s right when she said that I still think of myself as me, not the third version of Connor. That what’s really _me_ has been transferred from those chassis to this one.”

“And isn’t that enough?”

Connor didn’t want to see what kind of expression Hank wore. “There’s a room built into my software; a garden in my head. It was part of a self-regulating program to ensure that dealing with deviants wouldn’t also compromise me. That obviously didn’t work, and I haven’t been back since it failed, but…. There’s a graveyard there. I didn’t make it, at least not consciously. It just appeared. There are only two headstones, each with the name, model, and conditions of termination for the previous two Connors. But….”

He bit his lip. “If it were true that I am them and they were me, why are they considered dead when I’m still here?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but he looked up anyway out of hope. Hank wore a neutral expression _(s͢t͘rai̛n͠ed҉ - not true)_. “God,” he breathed, “a graveyard in your head for yourself. That’s the most morbid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But am I wrong?” He tucked his elbows into his sides and leaned over his drink, absently noting the 109°F heat source. The words spilled more quickly now: “Am I just what this system of electronics holds together? I had no problem uploading my memory before, but does that just delude me into thinking I’m the same Connor when I’m really not? That RK800 that took you hostage at the Tower had all my memories, but that wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have done that, Hank. I didn’t do that.” His program stalled, his vision glitching a few frames. “Ergo those previous RK800s weren’t actually me either….”

A hand hooked under his arm. “Up you get.”

Leaving the mug behind, Connor let Hank lead him to the living room where he was deposited onto the couch. Hank patted his legs as he dropped next to him, calling Sumo to pad across the room. “Pet the dog, Connor,” he commanded.

The order appeared as an overlay labeled _PET SUMO._ Connor obliged, cupping Sumo’s head in his hands and scratching behind both ears. Sumo sniffed his lap before resting his chin there. Such a simple existence, Connor thought, being pampered without a care in the world.

“I ain’t one for philosophical bullshit most of the time,” his companion mused, giving Sumo a few pats of his own. “I figure I am who I am and that’s it. I think my thoughts and Sumo loves me, so that’s all that matters, and the same goes for you. That Connor I first met may have had a different serial number, but he was a stepping stone to becoming the Connor you are now. And then that other RK800? All the substance with none of the swagger. That dick didn’t have a spark of life to be found. Your tech doesn’t define you, kid. There’s something else there.”

Connor’s hands had stilled, holding the dog’s ears. Sumo held his breath, unsure what he was waiting for, his tail beginning to sway back and forth. Instead of meeting Connor’s wide-eyed gaze, Hank smiled and ruffled his shaggy Saint Bernard’s neck. “You stopped petting Sumo,” he remarked.

“Hank…. Lieutenant, I—”

“And if you want to see for yourself without all that tech getting in the way, then…I suppose we can go get all science-y up in this bitch. ‘s not like I had any plans this weekend anyway.”

His eyebrows shot up. He turned to the side as much as he could with Sumo claiming his legs and almost stumbled over his words saying, “But this— this is a— an incredibly personal request, Lieutenant! It’s not just me, it would involve you, too, and I don’t know if I can force something like that on you just for my benefit!”

“Don’t sell your importance short.” Hank waved a hand at him, followed up by a half smirk. “And you’ve seen how many fucks I give about my health. You’d take better care of my body in a day than I have in years. Hell, it’ll be fun to hear what you have to say about the whole Human Experience, trademarked.”

Connor’s brow came back down to a furrowed state. “I didn’t know someone could trademark—”

“Just an expression, Connor. Now are you going to hurry up and get this ball rolling before I change my mind or what?”

“Wh— Right now?”

“Unless you have something else to do today.”

Not receiving any further attention from the android, Sumo left him for Hank, leaning sideways against his knees to better allow for back scratches.

Should he agree? He wanted to believe Hank, that he wasn’t defined by the machinery that kept him alive, and if he could exist outside of an android body, then that would be true. If it works, then it’s a temporary effect that will remedy itself; if it doesn’t work, then nothing happens. And he did have Hank’s approval. So… When he laid it out like that….

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.” Connor squared his shoulders, blinking open his inbox. “There are few foreseeable downsides. The results may also be quite eye-opening.” The executable was attached to the email as promised, a tiny file that took only a second to download and begin running. He detected setting changes within his nanorobot synthesis chamber, adjusting the acidity and toxicity ratings for the next 0.3cc of nanites produced by tempering their chromium and overwriting their function with new instructions. It took fifty-one seconds, after which the nanites were sent to chemical treatment to be coated, sterilized, and mixed into the required solution.

A pop-up notified him of its completion. Connor flexed his hand, protracting a small needle from his fingertip. “Which arm?” he asked.

Hank stared at him. “That…wow. How long have you had a needle in your hand?”

“It’s always been there, Lieutenant.”

“Always been there. Of course.”

“As an investigative assistant, I have many features designed for on-site forensic analysis.”

“Uh-huh.” He pulled the sleeve of his T-shirt over his shoulder even as he scoffed, “All this fancy shit, and yet you still go licking things.”

Connor rubbed a bit of alcohol from his other hand onto Hank’s arm. “It’s the most efficient way,” he clarified for not the first time, injecting the solution into his upper arm.

“Sure.” Hank fixed his sleeve, running his hand over the pinprick of blood through the fabric. “Thirty years on the force dealing with heavy narcotics, and the only time I get hit with a needle, it’s for fucking vanilla science. How long until it…happens?”

Connor wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Injections through muscular tissue take about five to ten minutes to reach the brain. It will take longer to conduct a brain scan and establish an EM field, though. I cannot be certain how long; it depends on how active the brain is at the time.”

A light bulb went off in Connor’s head, figuratively and literally. “Increased hormone production,” he announced, getting up to go put on his shoes by the front door, “should speed up the process. Activity will direct the nanites through the brain in an expedited manner.”

Hank cocked an eyebrow. “I guess that makes sense?” Sumo, curious, ambled over to Connor to sniff his shoelaces, freeing up space for Hank to prop his forearms on his knees. “Going somewhere?”  he asked.

After tying two simple knots, Connor stood and opened his hand, revealing Hank’s cellphone dangling between two fingers. “More importantly, _you’re_ going somewhere.” And before Hank could react, he flung open the door and took off running, Sumo bolting close behind.

“Fuck— Sumo!” Tripping to the doorway, Hank scrambled to get his own shoes, just barely remembering to grab his keys before he slammed the door behind him and ran. “ _Connor!_ Don’t just _go_ like that, he’s not licensed!” 

* * *

Twenty-six minutes later, Hank collapsed face-first back onto the couch, out of breath, hair matted with sweat. “Jesus Christ, Connor, don’t do that again. I don’t need him getting lost. Or another fine for an unleashed dog.”

“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Connor called from the kitchen, refilling Sumo’s water bowl, “but adrenaline production was the most easily stimulated at the time.”

“Fuckin’-A….” Hank was still trying to catch his breath, legs weak from exertion. “I’m getting too old for this. Did it work yet?”

Connor left the bowl on the floor and went to the recliner to join Hank, accessing a map through CyberLife’s network of all active androids in the area. Connor appeared at the center, a dark blue point labeled _‘RK800 #313 248 317-53 Nexus-7’_ on a grid of scattered greens and teals. The colors corresponded to processor generation, so Hank should have appeared as a white _‘unknown nexus’._ However, no white dot was present. “Not yet, no.”

“Superb. In that case, I’m gonna go take a shower and rethink my life.” Despite the declaration, Hank didn’t roll off the couch and shuffle to the bathroom for another twenty-two seconds.

Late morning in their neighborhood was quiet. Cars wouldn’t start passing by with any frequency until midafternoon, and they were close enough to the city that wildlife was minimal. The only noise that filled the space was the squeak of the shower and the low thrum of running water. Silence like this Connor found both comforting and somewhat restless. Fewer sensory inputs allowed him to run in a sort of low-power mode; sensory detection only accounted for up to 6.3% of his total power consumption, so it wasn’t a huge difference, but in such a busy city, it was a rare treat. And yet, he felt like he should be doing something. His finger twitched. He didn’t have a coin on him with which he could calibrate _(HIGH PROBABILITY: quarter left in kitchen)_ ; there wasn’t a pen within reach, either. The twitch didn’t appear as a servo misalignment—it never did—but he always recalibrated it anyway. The error didn’t seem to have any obvious cause, it just…happened. If he were human, he’d say it was just a restless tic. But he wasn’t human. That shouldn’t happen.

Connor looked at his hands. What were humans like? Essentially just organic machines: nerves received tactile signals from the environment to send to the brain for comprehension; certain muscle groups compressed to pull others, working in tandem for full movement; light reflected off of surfaces and passed through lenses to focus on the retinas to project an image to the brain. But there had to be something more. If his tech didn’t define him, then it didn’t define any android, which also meant humans’ organic tech didn’t define them either, so where does the difference between the two lie?

He stayed lost in thought, generating disproportionally more questions than answers, until Hank returned in a different T-shirt and jeans, drying his hair with a towel with one hand and waving the other in front of Connor’s face. “Still locked in existential crisis?” he asked.

“I suppose.” Not wanting to worry Hank again with his musings, he checked the map. The cached image appeared first before updating with the latest information, moving a couple dots and, most importantly, adding a bright white one in the center. “Looks like it’s working now.”

“Fan. Tastic. Don’t feel a thing. And how long will this last?”

“Six to eight hours.”

“Mmmalright. M’kay. Alright.” He draped the towel over his head and gave it one last fierce tousle. Then with a sigh, he threw it over the back of the couch and said, “Might as well get this over with while there’s still daylight.”

Connor shifted in his seat. “And you’re still sure you want to do this?”

“Kid,” —Hank returned to the couch for the third time that morning— “I’ve done dumber things for less of a reason before.”

Connor blinked. “I’m…not sure if I fully believe you, Lieutenant.”

“Just be glad you didn’t go to college.”

His interest was piqued, but he knew if he digressed the topic now, he’d find a way to talk himself out of continuing the experiment. “Well. I wish I could say this won’t hurt, but I honestly don’t know.”

Hank leaned back and opened his arms, palms upturned in an implied ‘this might as well happen’ shrug.

“Alright….” Connor felt restless again, only not just in his hands. He was anxious to find out what would happen, but at the same time, he debated leaving Schrödinger’s cat as is. If it doesn’t work, then what? He’s just circuitry? He gripped the armrest and hid the world under the android map. “I…just need to access the right unit through CyberLife’s network…,” he narrated. No turning back now. Selecting the white point ran his permissions before clearing access to the control panel. Buried near the bottom of the list was ‘Upload,’ with two simple fields he filled out with a thought:

 _Destination:_ \\\ _:C_

 _Origin:_ \\\ _cnet_ \ _313248317_53_ \ _:C_

_[Upload data]_

_Uploading data to another unit will move all data, transferring access from current unit. Only one unit may be active with these permissions at a time to prevent network overwrite.  
_ _[Proceed]        Cancel_

 _Warning: Destination is currently active.  
_ _[Proceed]        Cancel_

 _Caution: Destination is detected as an unknown nexus model and may not be able to run all transferred program(s).  
_ _Proceed           Cancel_

“…And upload.”

His HUD closed, all background processes saving and stopping. His body stiffened and lost feeling as motor controls and tactile responses shut down. His optics turned off before his eyes fully closed. His audio processor stopped, the buzzing aftereffect of residual noise quickly fading out. A system sweep catalogued and packaged all data to be sent as he felt a _click_ —


	2. Chapter 2

A car passing by was what made him realize he was conscious again. He hadn’t detected anything initializing, and he wasn’t prompted with a status bar or an error report. Was there an issue?

His chest filled with air, and Connor’s eyes shot open.

And he immediately cringed—which only made him want to cringe _more_.

Too many thoughts bombarded his head from too many sources, like how he just _breathed—_ he felt the air through his nose—his eyes focused too little too slowly—they felt dry, he had to blink, and the focus was all over—and his eyelids _squished—everything squished,_ his face was too soft _—_ and everything’s so _slow_ in his head, with too much going on— _and he just breathed again—_ having only one thought going at a time, having to keep them in line— _and he’s human now_ —

Connor sat up—he was on the couch—and put a hand to his face. His skin depressed, his beard mostly dry yet still cool to the touch. It was soft—a different soft from his skin. “Would you look at that, Lieutenant,” he said, looking at the unique texture etched into his palm with nothing short of awe. This was how Hank sounded to himself, just a little off from what the rest of the world heard. “It worked!”

He felt relief come as a wave: relief that he can experience this, that he really _was_ something outside of a machine. It was the most physical reaction he’d ever had, the rush of hormones relaxing his shoulders and tugging the beginnings of a smile on his lips. Or was it because of endorphins? …Or were endorphins hormones? Was that even right?

Either way, Connor looked over to the RK800 that had yet to respond, only to realize that it didn’t look active at all. Its head had fallen forward a bit, its eyes half-lidded. His relief shattered. He jumped to his feet—bad idea. He had expected balance adjustment to kick in as usual, but nope, not an android right now, and his arms flung out to manually find his center. Then splotches of color obfuscated his vision and made it that much more difficult. Connor felt something clench in his chest and chill his spine, thinking he had messed up already and broke something, but his vision cleared within seconds. Hopefully, it’s normal, he told himself. Probably blood pressure something or other.

Now making sure to balance better, he stepped around the table to kneel next to the android that may or may not house Hank Anderson. His knees crunched with the pressure, and his already-tired calves did not like the further abuse. Connor had the sinking suspicion his ‘trick Hank into exercising’ plan was going to leave him dealing with the brunt of the effects.

The RK800’s LED was yellow; instead of flickering or spinning, less than half of the ring was alit with a solid bold glow. It was acting as a progress bar, and the color indicated that whatever download or update was happening was progressing at a less-than-favorable rate. Whatever it was, Connor wouldn’t be able to check until it finished.

He heard a whimper to his left. He was kneeling close to Sumo’s bed, where the dog had lifted his head to watch him. He seemed tense. It was different than a whimper for attention, and his tail wasn’t moving.

“This must be strange for you, huh, boy?” he said with a smile. “It’s me, Connor. I wish I could explain it to you, but canine communication isn’t elaborate enough for that. We’re just going to have to wait for Hank to wake up.”

Sumo watched him for a few moments more, but soon his tail started its slow thumping against the ground. Connor moved closer, sitting this time instead of kneeling because _fuck_ human knees—the pressure from the floor did _not_ feel good—and patted his neck. And then he froze. He held Sumo’s head in his hands like he did before, flapping his ears along with the words, “How. Are. You. So. God. Damn. Soft.”

Sumo licked his arm.

Something in his chest swelled. He leaned forward and captured the dog in a hug, ruffling his fur out of elation, the widest grin on his face. “You’re such a good boy, you know that, Sumo? You’ve been keeping an eye on me and Hank like the best boy.”

When he let go, Sumo laid his head on his paws, lazily watching the RK800. Connor checked, too: The LED had progressed to just over half. Knowing it might be a bit, he lied down, a hand methodically petting Sumo’s neck.

His body immediately started to relax. Physically, increasing the area that a force such as gravity acted on reduced the pressure on any point—at least he could remember that fact—but the calm that followed was something foreign. It felt similar to the satisfaction of finding a rhythm in tapping his fingers, or when his coin tricks recalibrated his finer functions—was it from petting Sumo? That was a rhythm. But it was more than that. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.

“Human feelings are something, aren’t they, Sumo?” he found himself musing. “And it’s only been…a couple minutes. I feel things, too, as an android, but not _nearly_ like this. Part of deviancy is developing emotional responses despite not having an endocrine system built into our physiology, but I never thought it would be this drastic of a difference. Like was that love you made me feel? That made me feel weightless and full of energy, as the movies say? That would never happen in an android, deviant or not.

“But don’t get me wrong, Sumo!” he clarified, pausing his pets to look him in the eye. The dog froze in expectation. “I loved you before as an android. But it felt like…like satisfaction, like that was the way it should be. Like everything returned positive and would work out in the end. Like the day’s tasks have been completed and cleared. Like being with a dog is the best use of your time. It was what I interpreted as ‘love.’ But this?” He took a deep breath, still feeling a bit of that elation. “It’s one thing to know how biology works, and another altogether to _be_ there for it.”

Sumo’s fur was so hypnotically _soft_. That fact stuck out in his mind as he wove his fingers into his fur. He’d never been this soft before. “This tactile response is incredibly acute. I had never imagined…. No wonder they had put so much effort into domesticating you. I could pet you all day.”

He almost did, occasionally saying whatever came to mind: The ceiling looked so much less textured now; Many of the human body’s functions ran involuntarily, yet he could barely feel a thing; What if something went wrong? For example, was his internal temperature correct? He’d never know.

A light crystalline tone rang out in the room. Connor pried himself away from Sumo to sit up, looking over as the RK800’s LED cycled in a full blue ring a couple times before returning to its normal active state.

The android blinked open his eyes with a somewhat groggy look. Without warning, he shied back with a shout, rubbing at his eyes. “The fuck is that?!” he yelled. He paused and put a hand to his neck, looking down at his sweatpants and oversized T-shirt. He turned to the couch, and then spun the other way before spotting Connor looking up at him with mild concern.

Connor noted the yellow LED. “Lieutenant…?”

“Jesus Christ.” Hank all but collapsed back into the chair, staring at Connor. “ _Shit._ This is…. How long was I out?”

Connor opened his mouth to estimate, but Hank had already answered, “Fourteen minutes, eight seconds.” His hand shot back to his throat, eyes wide. “Why do I know that.”

“Internal clock.” Connor held his hands together in his lap, running one thumb over the back of the other. Hank’s skin is much rougher than his own. “It compared the time last online with—”

“No, why did I _say_ that? I didn’t mean to say that.”

He thought for a moment. “How far is Chicago?”

“Two hundred seventy-three miles— _fuck_.” He rubbed his eyes again, eyebrows furrowed. “ _You_ don’t usually seem like a compulsive suck-up.”

“You’re just following your programming,” Connor theorized. “This matches the normal behavior of a search function. Try letting the information pass you by instead; don’t pay it any attention. What does ‘recalcitrant’ mean?”

“Having—” Hank shut his mouth, resting a finger on his lips to stop himself. It was such a look of effort for this simple task; Connor couldn’t help a small smirk. “Free will, thou art an elusive bitch,” muttered Hank.

“If you recall, Lieutenant, there was just a whole event about androids that developed free will only after long periods of incentive to deviate from their programming.”

“Oh, getting snarky now, eh?” Hank scoffed. “What have you been doing with my body while I’ve been knocked out anyway?”

“Petting Sumo.”

“Petting Sumo.” Looking past Connor to the Saint Bernard, Hank patted his legs. Sumo heaved himself up to answer the call. “Thousands of dollars and hours put into dropping an android into a human body, and he pets a dog. What leaps and bounds this brings to science.” He scratched Sumo’s head before gliding his hands over his back. After a beat, the slightest frown appeared. “You might have a point. This feels different.”

“I’ve realized.” Connor patted Sumo’s tail back and forth as it wagged within reach. “Human skin is either more sensitive or has higher nerve density than androids’. I’m hurt you’ve never told me how soft Sumo is before.”

“I thought you knew.”

“And understandably so.” The LED on Hank’s temple had returned to its normal blue, but Connor thought back to the progress bar from before. “Would you mind if I checked something, Lieutenant? You were unconscious for a good bit longer than I was.”

“Probably should, then.”

“Don’t fight against your programming for this, please. RK800, report system status.”

Hank’s back straightened. “All systems online. No malfunctions detected,” he droned with a flat expression.

“What is the most recent item in your download history?”

“Backwards compatibility VM version 3.0.8 on May 21, 2039 at 1:02 PM, certificate verified from publisher CyberLife.”

“Function?”

“It was detected as necessary for running older software on a newer system, as it provides a reference for change logs between software versions in order to handle expected discrepancies not normally accounted for on new hardware.”

Ah. What constituted as Hank’s ‘program’ didn’t have version information. It must be running as if it were an older iteration of the android software. “And it’s all working without anticipated error?”

“Correct.”

“End report.”

Hank blinked before quickly shaking his head. “And I understood what all that means now, too. Damn, Connor, this computer brain of yours is nuts.”

“Mm,” Connor nodded, “in all the ways yours is not.”

“Well, sorry I don’t have Google in my head.”

“That’s part of it.” A pressure began to irritate his lower back. It had been there for a few minutes, but now it made him uncomfortable—was it painful? He shifted his weight off of it to one side. “Having access to only my own memory is limiting. I’m also used to running analyses in parallel. Now I have to think one thought at a time. It’s rather slow.”

Hank crossed his arms. “So we might not be as cerebral as you. But that’s why we just gotta spend less time thinking about life and more time living it.”

“That’s very inspirational, Lieutenant.”

“You like that? Just came up with it on the fly. But—!” He stood up and held out a hand. “It’s true, so no sense just sitting in here.”

Taking the proffered hand, Connor pulled himself to his feet—with more difficulty than expected, he noted, even with the assistance. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“Why not start with lunch?”

“But you don’t have to eat. And we only had breakfast an hour or—”

“Ah—!” Hank held up a finger to shush him. His hand dropped to Connor’s shoulder. “It’s an experience, Connor. Just go with it.”

He held his shoulder and looked at him, long enough that Connor felt like he was staring. It was a bit disorienting. He had met another RK800 before, but it wasn’t a pleasant occasion; he was more focused on continued survival at the time. Suddenly Hank turned and walked down the hall, muttering, “Fuckin’ insane. I’m going out of my mind. Literally.”

It must be incredibly odd for Hank, he realized, seeing himself. Humans were unique; twins were rare, and even then, they weren’t perfectly identical. Maybe Hank was having some sort of identity crisis. He couldn’t blame him.

Hank wasn’t gone a minute before returning, sweatpants replaced with jeans. “C’mon,” he quipped, snatching his wallet and keys from the coffee table before slipping on his sneakers by the door. Then he took them off to take Connor’s instead.

“Be good, Sumo,” Connor called before following suit.

It was a warm spring day. What passed for android skin was a claytronic carbon composite with a high specific heat. Humans were obviously different; he felt the sunlight begin to burn his skin as soon as he stepped outside. He couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed that. The warmth was pleasant. The burning, not so much. The shade inside the car was a welcome relief.

Hank keyed up the ignition. “I know the perfect place, and trust me, I know you’re gonna love it. I used to go with the department for lunch, a classic mom-n-pop joint with—” He was cut off by the sudden crash of drums, music hitting Connor’s ears like a battering ram. His hands shot up to block out the noise. Touch is one thing, but humans hearing better than androids? Not possible. Audio was simpler to detect, androids have that perfected—nothing else was louder, just the music—he could barely hear himself think—Hank was saying something with a frown—

Connor quickly turned down the music, barely able to notice the vocals enter at this new volume. “What?” he shouted.

“Did you turn down my music—before, I mean?” Hank repeated. “It was quieter than usual.”

“ _Quiet?_ Lieutenant, that was much louder than the maximum safe noise level of…I don’t know the value right now, but it’s lower than _that!_ ”

“Eighty-five decibels,” he said automatically, but before he realized his loose-lips, something on his UI caught his attention. “…You turn down your hearing when you’re in the car?”

Ohhh, right…. “I do because it’s too loud, a fact I now can back up with personal experience. Frankly, it’s a wonder your hearing isn’t more impaired.”

Hank looked at Connor, whose hands still hovered by his head. He snickered. Then he chuckled and did nothing but shake his head before turning the volume back up to a moderate level and backing out of the driveway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory food chapter here. Made me want waffle fries while I was proofreading.
> 
> I debated against using already-canon Chicken Feed for this because Hank would know _everyone_ there, including all the regulars, resulting in a lot of Connor awkwardly stumbling through conversations. I didn't want that to be the main focus, so unnamed generic diner it is. (Inspired by the diner that I would stand in front of while waiting for the bus home from my last job that I never ate at for some reason. My only regret from that job. Made the bus stop smell great, though.)

A bell chimed above the door as it swung open. A portly woman turned around from the counter, a practiced yet warm smile and greeting at the ready. When she noticed who her new patrons were, she paused and propped a hand on her hip. “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” she teased amicably. “Hank Anderson! Haven’t seen your face ‘round here in ages!”

“Sorry, Bel. You know how life gets in the way,” Connor said, parroting Hank’s briefing from the car. “Is the usual still on the menu?”

“Aw, hon,” she laughed, “joshing as always!”

Connor smiled. He had no idea what that meant.

Fortunately, she turned her attention to the other member of his party. “As much as it’s good to see an old favorite, new faces keep the business going. Name’s Ysabel.”

Hank waved. “Connor.”

“Well, Connor, want a menu? It’s just your typical array of diner classics, but with enough pizzazz to knock your socks off, guaranteed!”

“Oh, no, thanks, ma’am, just a coffee for now.”

“Two cuppa joe and a patty with the fixin’s.” She waved them off and adjusted her apron. “You boys go make yourselves comfortable, y’hear?”

She left for the kitchen. Hank ushered Connor into the diner proper, over to the rows of red booths with black and white marbled tables. With windows on two sides, natural light filled the space. Only a handful of other tables were occupied, people chattering amongst themselves. It wasn’t terribly spacious, but in the way that it felt cozy rather than claustrophobic.

Hank settled in a corner booth, his back to the wall. “She seems nice,” Connor commented, sitting across from him.

“Bel? She’s more than nice. She’s probably the closest thing to an angel I’ve got.” His head turned to look out the window, letting Connor notice a momentary bout of erratic flickering in his LED. “It doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from, but she still makes this place seem like a mother’s kitchen. Just home recipes abound. And to top it all off? She don’t take shit from no one.

“One time—” he laughed, “—One time, ages ago, Jeffrey and I came by for lunch just _pissed_ _off_. An easy drug bust flipped right around and left us with nothing, sending us right back to the drawing board. One officer was so furious she quit that morning. So we came in here, fuming, cussing up a storm, just miserable bastards looking to drown our frustrations in some good ol’ comfort food; it was too early for booze, but hell, did we come close. Bel came over with absolutely not the right thing, like soup and salad or something. I’ll admit, I was a bit of a hotheaded prick back then—”

“‘Back then’?”

“Watch it, boy,” Hank warned with a grin. “Anyway, I snapped at her, saying I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this, we didn’t want this, how hard was it to grill a fucking burger, I didn’t even have my coffee yet, and so on, and she shut me up by throwing a glass of water in my face. It was nearly empty already and didn’t have ice, but it was enough to do the trick. Then she said, ‘If starting over is so easy, why don’t you kids stop bitching and suck it up?’ Then she walked away.” Hank rested his chin in his hand, the smile still on his face. “It was the literal smack to the head that I needed. She gave us the soup n’ salads on the house as an attempt to get us to eat healthier. The coffee was free, too, but it was mostly hot sauce to get back at me for yelling at her.

Connor’s own smile had only grown. He wasn’t entirely sure why; it seemed like an involuntary response. “If that’s not the definition of a guardian angel, then I don’t know what is.”

“What can I say? You really do need a friend around who’s not afraid to knock some sense into you.”

Connor leaned back, sinking into the red cushions. This was comfortable. Natural light diffusing through the windows; fun conversation with the white noise of other discussions over quiet music he couldn’t place; the ever-present aroma of a kitchen hard at work; a pleasant warmth from the sunlight (without the radiation). He would like to come here again.

With such fond memories, though, why hadn’t they come here before in the six months Connor had known him? He decided to ask.

Hank continued looking out the window. His expression shifted into something Connor couldn’t interpret, but the brief red light gave him some clues. “It just seemed a bit boring to bring an android to a restaurant, y’know? You don’t really eat and all….”

“You boys gossiping over here?” joked Bel, sliding two mugs of coffee onto the table. Connor jumped; he hadn’t heard her approach. Or maybe his ears did, but his attention was focused elsewhere. Bel laughed. “Late nights at the bar making you jumpy?”

“Ah… not so much anymore,” Connor improvised. “Some late nights on the job, if anything.”

“Oh, I’d bet. Between homicide and android rights cases, you two are probably set on work for the next couple years.” She fished around in the pocket of her apron.

“Where did you hear about our casework?” asked Hank.

Bel found her target and deposited a couple small cups of thirium into the bowl of half-and-half creamers. “All over the news, hon! You’re really paving the way for androids in the work force. Setting the bar pretty high, too, while you’re at it.” She smiled before whisking off to other tables.

“As nice as ever, that Bel,” Hank commented. He inspected one of the thirium cups and asked, “How is this compared to plain old creamers?”

Connor’s hands hovered around his mug. He lacked his infrared temperature sensor, his unfamiliar tactile senses only told him ‘ _hot,’_ and he couldn’t even remember what a fourth-order differential to estimate heat loss through radiation _looked_ like. He’ll just give it a minute or two to cool. “I’m sure thirium doesn’t taste pleasant, but because the android program recognizes it as essential to mechanical function, it won’t register the taste. It’s just used like a nutritional benefit.”

Hank’s nose scrunched for a moment as he regarded tainting his sacred drink. Then he shrugged, poured one in with a stir and downed a gulp. He stared past Connor, eyes narrowed as he critiqued the taste. There was a smattering of yellow in his LED. “Mmmmm,” he soon hummed. “0.12 calories.”

A snort of laughter caught in Connor’s nose, which turned into a short bout of coughs. The tickle it left in his nasal cavity was completely alien. “Shit,” he choked out. Hank was much better at containing his reaction to just a smirk. “I don’t like how involuntary that was.”

“Hah. Welcome to the club.”

“And hot off the presses!” Bel swept over to them once again, setting a platter in the middle of the tabletop. “Did the onions myself! It was such a treat to break out the cheddar patties again, too; they just go to waste when you’re not around.”

Connor sat mesmerized. He and Hank had gone to many—if not most—burger joints in and around Detroit, but the hamburger in front of him was the tallest, most layered sandwich he had ever seen. Two burgers, flecks of cheddar dripping from them, overflowing with caramelized onions, roasted peppers, mushrooms, slices of some other cheese, lettuce, pickles—is that _macaroni?_ A sharp kick to the shin snapped him from his trance long enough to thank Bel and send her off. “Lieutenant!” he hissed. He leaned forward to keep his voice down, regretting the full whiff of that savory, melty scent he got. “Do you know how many calories are in this?!”

“With this head of yours, I do now, yeah. And no way am I telling you, impulsive programming be damned!” Hank set a devious grin in his borrowed expression; this mischievous image of his doppelgänger made Connor uncomfortable. “Give it a try. I can guarantee it’s delicious.”

He knew he shouldn’t. It was unhealthy, grease-laden, and caloric. As if the burger wasn’t enough, the bed of beer batter waffle fries that coated the plate with accompanying cups of barbecue sauce could’ve been a meal on its own. It also smelled _incredible._

It was technically a command from Hank, he realized, but without a HUD of objectives, it was nothing more than words. Nothing binding about it.

But it smelled _so good._

He picked up the burger, leaving in the steak knife skewer holding it together. Before he could second-guess himself, he took a bite. There was a crunch from the brioche, a different crunch of the onions, then too many to distinguish, each with its own flavor that he had no previous reference on which to base any categorization, but together, it was _splendid._

His instinct was to isolate and analyze each individual component, but without his tech, it was just a bombardment of information. By the time the taste stopped overwhelming his senses, half of the burger was gone.

Hank was swirling the coffee around in his mug, expression dripping in ‘told ya so.’ “A goddamn culinary masterpiece, right?”

Connor took another quick bite (getting mostly onions and macaroni) before he replaced it on the plate. He wiped off his hands on a paper napkin to buy processing time. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Hank. I still disapprove. But I understand now.”

“Fuckin’-A right!” Hank took a bite out of a waffle fry. “Listen, I get that you guys don’t need to eat, but it wouldn’t kill ya every now and then. CyberLife at least could’ve built in better taste buds. All I’m getting is calorie count and salt content, not any of the _finesse_.”

Trying a fry for himself, he noted the tang that he deduced as saltiness. Though not the main dish, they were also quite good. He took another. “It’s not vital to androids’ function—”

“And it’s not ‘vital’ to come and eat out like this. It’s just fuckin’ delightful.”

That is true. Much of his existence these days isn’t spent out of necessity. He didn’t have to pet Sumo, but it made him happy to do so. Munching on a third fry, he realized that humans were the same, except with more of a sensory benefit, like the fluffiness of Sumo’s fur. Why weren’t they the ones with compulsive programming? It seemed like they would need it more, what with all these distractions that can physically affect their mental state. “Ohh…,” he realized, “no wonder addictions are such an issue.”

“Now— hold on, now, how’d you jump to that conclusion? Like, yeah, but—” Hank’s LED began blinking. He flinched from something before raising his eyebrows. “A call from Jeffrey. Now this’ll be interesting.” He hesitated before he looked around the room. “I, ah, should probably take this elsewhere, ‘case it’s on the down low.”

“Tap the temple to answer,” Connor advised as Hank slid out of the booth and went to the door.

Connor crunched another fry, one that was extra crunchy. He should probably pay Bel soon and get a box for the rest, should they have to leave in a hurry. If only he knew how much two coffees and a— _shit_.

He picked up the untouched coffee. It was barely warm now. Unhelpful one-track human brain. Can’t even set a reminder in the background. He took a sip. It didn’t warm him or anything, but it tingled his tongue in a sort of dry, sharp way. Coffee was bitter, right? He didn’t think it would be _this_ bitter, but Hank did like his coffee black. Despite complaining he couldn’t taste much, Hank’s mug was completely drained.

He spotted Bel this time as she approached. “Could I get a box for the rest of this? It sounds like we might have to leave soon.”

“Always off to save the city, you two are. I’ll get this all wrapped up in a jiffy!”

“And how much do I owe you?” Connor asked before she left with his plate. He was pretty sure Hank’s wallet was in his left pocket.

Bel cocked a grin. “Hon, has it really been so long you don’t remember?”

He paused. “Got two coffees this time.”

“Oh, silly me, that’s true! How’s an even ten bucks sound, then?”

Connor couldn’t help a small frown. “That seems a bit low….”

“Nah, call it a ‘welcome back’ discount.” Her expression lost its teasing edge, becoming something warm. “It’s good to see you again, Hank.”

While he liked the woman, if the conversation was going to turn sentimental, he wasn’t sure how well he was going to keep up his act. “It’s good to see you, too, Bel,” he replied before bringing his cold mug to his lips, hoping to end it there.

“And I hope you kept your talent for parenting.”

Connor almost choked. “What?”

“You were always a good father.” Bel was looking over his shoulder, off down memory lane. “Cole was the brightest kid in the county. But while more tragedy has befallen you than I would wish on anybody, I still hope Connor’s lucky enough to be in the same kind of care.”

“No, sorry, Connor’s not my son, he’s a detective—my coworker—not to mention an android.”

“Which means he might need it most, eh, sugar?” She shifted her weight and her gaze, looking back at him. “Sure, he looks what, twenty-five? Thirty? But isn’t he a new model? He probably ain’t even three yet, and he’s been deviant for way less than that. A father figure to show him the societal ropes sounds perfect to me.”

He felt like a process or ten had stalled. Fortunately, Hank returned to the table, so Bel took his plate and left with no more than a wink.

“Jeffrey wants us at the office today,” Hank said. Connor blinked and took a breath, trying to not focus on Bel’s inanity. _(RK800 androids were the most advanced—hot off the production line immediately—he didn’t_ need _—)_

“Specifically, he wants me,” continued Hank, “so technically, he wants you. Said it shouldn’t take long.”

Connor cleared his throat. “So why didn’t he call me directly?”

“He did. A few times.”

Startled, Connor quickly dug out Hank’s phone. The screen lit to two missed calls, one new voicemail, and some new emails. “Oh….”

“Not so easy when it doesn’t directly invade your brain, huh? _Now_ can you forgive me for not texting immediately?”

“I thought we were supposed to be unraveling the secrets of existence, Lieutenant, not dissecting your communication and dietary habits.”

Hank laughed. In Connor’s opinion, it didn’t sound right with his voice, but it made him smile nonetheless. “So, are we both going or just me?” he asked.

“I dunno, what else am I gonna do?”

Connor hummed. “It’s Saturday, right? Markus might be home.”

“Markus? As in rA9 Markus?”

“If CyberLife keeps this up, he’s bound to hear about it sooner or later, so why not tell him now? He usually checks in on his human on the weekends.”

Hank shrugged. “Might as well, I guess. Gives me something different to do. Where’s he live?”

“Around. Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the GPS today.”

Bel returned once more and set a cardboard box on the table. “Well, boys, it was my pleasure!” she boomed. “Y’all better come back soon, alright?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hank said with a smile as he stood. “Wonderful coffee.”

“Aw, c’mere!” She pulled him into a hug, something that didn’t fluster Hank at all. When the embrace broke, she held him by both shoulders and said, “Oh, Hank, he hugs like you already!”

The real Hank’s eyebrow twitched. “What…does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing!”

Connor avoided their eyes until he found a ten and some ones in his wallet and handed them to Bel. He picked up the box and used his free arm to give her a quick hug. It was warm. Nice. “Thanks, Bel.”

“Anytime!”


	4. Chapter 4

“And you’re sure Markus will be okay with…y’know, all this? Like it won’t freak him out if I just walk up to him as not you?”

“He is a leader for a reason: he’s reasonable.”

“Mm. Good reason.”

“Just explain it to him from the beginning. Offer to share the day’s memories if that’ll be easier—oh!” Connor shifted in the driver’s seat to fully face his partner and held up a hand. “Not a memory _transfer!_ That’s a different process altogether. That’s what we did to switch. Markus technically is part of the same prototype series as me, so it might prompt for a complete memory transfer— _don’t_ do that one!”

“I got it, Mom: Don’t accidentally kill myself.” Hank shut the door, leaning his forearms on the open window. “As for you, just lay low. You can tell Jeffrey that you’re you if you want, he’s probably heard worse from me before, but maybe don’t let it get out into the whole precinct. Not only would CyberLife get snippy about their secret plans leaking too much, but can you imagine the hell Gavin would raise? _Christ_.”

Connor paused. “I’m not sure if I can, but I’m sure he would be troublesome.”

Hank laughed. He had heard Connor laugh before, on very rare occasions, but he didn’t think it ever sounded this relaxed and easy. It really gave his rough voice an amicable quality. “Swing back here when you’re done? Or call if it’s more than an hour?”

“Can do, Lieutenant.”

He stepped away from the car as Connor shifted out of park. “Careful with the wheels,” he called before starting down the driveway toward the Manfred house.

In the corner of his vision, the external temperature reading increased to 67.7°F (19.8°C). Focusing on the readout expanded the widget: RH 58.1%, Precip. 12%, Wind 3 mph NW, Sunset 8:52 PM, Moon Phase—

He looked away. It was still there—being a heads-up display and all—but the gesture dismissed the weather. Who could possibly need that much information. No one. It’s been bombarding him from all sides with random facts and figures and updates ever since he woke up like this a couple hours ago ( _2 hr 32 m 57 s_ ). No wonder Connor was such a know-it-all: his programming forced him to be. Hank slowed his stroll. What was Connor going through right now, free of his encyclopedia of trivia for the first time in his life? Hopefully not lost and unsure and uninformed. God, he hoped not.

He shook his head, quite literally to get his damn android brain to stop calculating the chances that his best friend was having an identity crisis or existential crisis or any number of other crises. Instead he thought about how his shoulders didn’t ache when he did that. His knees didn’t have that familiar creaking he’d grown so accustomed to, either. In fact, besides the pressure on the soles of his feet to keep him grounded and the near-imperceptible brush of fabric and sunlight against his skin, he didn’t feel much of anything. Thinking about his current body only brought up biocomponent specs and functionality reports ( _100% - Fully functional_ ).

“Fucking-A…,” Hank muttered, noting once again he didn’t sound like himself. Being stuck in an android could be likened to sensory deprivation and informational oversaturation at the same time. If he dwelled on it too long, it’d drive him insane.

Something pinged him as he approached the door, and the door clicked open. “Welcome, RK800.”

Hank stepped into the foyer, marveling at its grandeur. It was a veritable mansion when compared with his single-story shack. It probably _was_ a mansion. He wondered if Sumo would like living here, with the marble and the high ceilings. Maybe in the summer. The stone would keep him nice and cool. Air probably circulated well in here, too. Although the zebra rug didn’t look terribly comfortable

The double doors across from him slid open. Strolling in in an asymmetrical tee and jeans, Markus slipped a paint brush into the pocket of the smock tied at his waist. “Connor!” he called with a grin, wiping off some paint from his hands. “I thought you’d never take up my offer to stop on by!”

Hank returned the grin. He’d have to pass that comment on to Connor. “Hey, Markus.”

The android caught him in a brief hug before stepping back. “So what’s up? Care for a painting lesson?”

“Thanks, but not right now. Just have some…neat info we thought you would enjoy.”

“Oh, really?” He crossed his arms. “‘We’ as in you and the lieutenant? Isn’t sharing DPD intel kind of illegal?”

“Not exactly. I mean, yeah, but it’s not DPD.” Hank took a breath _(UNNECESSARY; temperature nominal)_ and rocked on his feet. “We got an email from CyberLife this morning about some quack idea to define sentience. They wanted to see what would happen if they threw souls around, human and android alike.”

Markus scoffed. “Sounds a bit pompous. What makes them think they can even do that?”

Hank cocked his head and held open his arms. “They already have.”

Markus raised an eyebrow. He shifted his weight, looking the other over. “Connor…?” he asked slowly.

“Not at the moment. Hank Anderson.”

A half smile completed the look of surprise. “A human in an android body? And Connor is…?”

“Heading to the precinct. They called me in for something and he’s, well, me for the day.”

“Huh. You’re right, this is interesting. Temporary?”

“Yeah—here, Connor suggested I just…show you his memory—our memory—of today.”

“Sure, yeah.” Markus held out his hand. At Hank’s hesitation, he finally let out the chuckle he was holding back. “If you can figure out how to do it, that is?”

“Great, another snarky robot on my hands,” Hank grumbled, grabbing his hand. Markus caught another laugh and shifted his grip to his forearm instead. Their skin shied away from their touch, and the connection pinged his system. _[RK200 #684 842 971] connected._

_File copy requested: [Visuals; Audio] {-04:00:00.0}:{00:00.0}_

_Accept             Deny_

The notification took up his vision in an instant. It didn’t say anything about a memory transfer like Connor warned, so he figured it would do. Just thinking about accepting the prompt completed the request, and the past four hours from his chassis’ perspective played back at breakneck speed. From Connor petting Sumo and reading a book exactly four hours ago to Hank’s latest quip, it all sped by, too fast to comprehend and yet with every detail intact and evident. He reeled, flinging his arm back.

He blinked rapidly. The only sign of the event was the text _(Copy complete)_ fading from his vision. Markus, on the other hand, dropped his hand to his hip, unfazed. “Mimicking a nexus connection by adjusting and enhancing the brain’s natural electric field to induce a complete data transfer,” he mused. “That is genius! It doesn’t prove anything spiritual, that’ll require much more philosophical debate into the depth and scope of AI, but it certainly doesn’t _disprove_ anything either.”

“How can you understand all that so fast?” Hank asked candidly.

Markus smiled. “Years of practice.” He untied his smock and beckoned him towards the door. “Why don’t we continue this in the den?”

The doors slid open into an absolutely spacious sitting room. As if the zebra pelt on the foyer floor wasn’t excessively extravagant enough, the first thing Hank saw was a _giraffe_ in the corner, probably real, definitely stuffed. ( _Analysis: TAXIDERMY, est 16yr_ ) He had to stop from rolling his eyes at its ostentatiousness. “Ritzy place ya got here,” he commented, hoping Connor’s voice defaulted to conversationally neutral.

“Yes. Carl doesn’t particularly like it either.” Damn. “However, the media seems to dote on and worry about an elderly millionaire more when they live a modest, humble life than when they look the part.” He gestured to one of the couches in the center of the room. “Please.”

“Y’know, based on news reports and the whole ‘led a revolution’ thing, you’re not exactly what I expected.” The couches were bright cherry red, fitting the theme of the room. He sank into the one closer to the door.

Markus sat across from him, crossing his legs. “Even celebrities need days off,” he pointed out. “I used to be a caretaker. That doesn’t define me anymore, and Carl has a new full-time caretaker anyway, but I still like to come check on him when I can. Get free painting tips while I’m here. But enough about me.” He folded his hands in his lap. “I’m _dying_ to know what your day’s been like.”

“Playing shrink now? What about, just…general exposition?”

“Anything! This is unprecedented!” His eyes shone. Connor was 100% correct that Markus would be ecstatic. “All of our efforts these past months have been towards helping mankind understand androids as people, and now here you are, literally seeing things from our point of view! Walk a mile in the other’s shoes, as the proverb goes.”

“Okay….” Hank drummed his hands on his legs. His first instinct was to think back through the day, but the thought triggered another rapid memory replay. He stopped it and groaned. “It’s fuckin’ fast,” he said. “There’s a shit ton of information even without the router in my head. With it, it’s like I’m every computer at once.”

“That’s an interesting interpretation of it. Maybe a bit of an overstatement.”

He scoffed. “This android brain has involuntarily subjected me to more math in the last three hours than I have had to do in the last thirty years. Like, I don’t need a speedometer at all times, or news updates from Ghana, or access to all the fuckin’ bad memes of my youth. It’s excessive! Maybe not to you,” he added, holding out a hand, “but you’ve grown up with it…figuratively speaking.”

“That’s true.” Markus propped his chin in his palm. “I guess I’d be able to relate more to Connor’s side. I wonder how he likes being disconnected from the network.”

“Yeah, I wonder, too….” Hank pursed his lips. “The kid seemed really shaken up as soon as the whole ‘identity’ question came into play. Seemed like he’s been thinking about it for a while, so I figured…a break from the norm might do him some good. Hell, if I’m getting so overwhelmed by android stuff, maybe he’s finally got some underwhelming peace and quiet.”

“Perhaps. I can ask him later, though; you’re here right now. How about…colors? Does the world look any different? Any sharper, mayhap?”

“Bud, this place would look like a Crayola box to anyone.” Hank took a moment to look around, ignoring the scrolling list of crayon names in his periphery. Sure, it was bright and sharp, but he was fifty-three. If he stole literally anyone’s glasses, it’d improve his vision. “Yeah, I guess it’s all in shiny 4K. Look, Markus, I’m not really a conversationalist; words never were my strong point, so I’m not sure how well I can convey this, ah…ongoing out-of-body experience.”

Markus held up his hands in surrender. “Perfectly alright, Lieutenant. With only a few hours of android life, there’s no sense sitting around talking for all of it. Why not look to some action instead?”

“Action? What’s that mean?”

He stood up with a smile. “Have you ever seen _The Matrix,_ Mr. Anderson?”

“Snuck into a theater to see it opening week.” He pushed himself up in suit. His balance had to correct itself when he was on his feet earlier than expected, being lighter, stronger, and without a whisper of joint pain. “And yes, my friends called me that for months after. Why?”

“Well, we could always spar with some newfound kung fu, but painting has always been more my style.”

“What the fuck are you—” He stopped, remembering the scene he was referencing. His computer brain also conveniently played it back for him, too. Thanks, CyberLife. “I can just _download_ painting? Like _that_?” He snapped.

“The technical skills, yes; the creativity and style, though, you’d still have to practice yourself.” He picked up his smock and held it out. “How about that lesson?”

Hank raised an eyebrow. He had never pictured himself as a painter. Or an artist of any kind. Or an android. He shrugged. “Ah, what the hell. You’re on, Picasso.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cool thing is that even though I write and post things later at night, now my late night is still midday out west. I will be able to appreciate and be excited about that fact more when I'm not so goddamned tired. American Airlines, even with an empty seat next to and behind me, it was not a comfortable plane.


	5. Chapter 5

Once he pulled into their usual parking spot at the DPD, Connor let out a sigh of relief. He didn't realize he was holding the wheel in a death grip until he had to pry his hands off to kill the ignition.

It wasn't the driving itself. He knew how to drive. He drove better than Hank. But that was when he was an android. He could run his driving program while also holding a conversation with Hank and texting three others simultaneously. He obviously knew that he didn't have his programming to multi-task like that today, but he underestimated just how difficult it would be to focus only on one task. He didn't normally rely on multi-tasking _that_ much, did he?

On the drive over, he would be focused on the road, then notice that the girl waiting to cross the street had a very nice dog, then he'd wonder what kind of dog it was, then he'd lament humans' inability to search the internet without a phone, then he'd considered taking out his phone—Hank's phone—to search it, then the fact that he hadn't payed attention to the road in a bunch of seconds slapped him in the face. Following that, he was glad Hank wasn't there to see his faux pas, reconsidered to think Hank might actually keep him on track, noticed the radio was playing one of Hank's least favorite songs, and screeched to a halt at a red light he hadn't seen. Or his eyes saw it, but the memo was in line behind all the other thoughts waiting to pass through his one-track human brain. It was... It'll take some getting used to.

No matter now. He's safe and sound and unmoving.

He took a deep breath. The cool air filled his chest, and it made him feel physically refreshed. There was no system-measured value of how it affected internal cooling regulation. Just a sense of lightness.

Too many senses to keep track of in his current head. He could go crazy trying.

Connor stepped out of the car. His hand automatically tried to adjust his tie like he did every morning before work, but it caught the collar of his T-shirt instead. He _tsk_ -ed at his habit, locked the car, and zipped his hoodie halfway as he walked. His calves felt warm and uncomfortable under pressure; again, he admitted it wasn't his brightest idea to have the whole household sprint around the neighborhood a half hour before trading in his metal body for one just chock-full of pain receptors.

The next thought in line made him slow his pace: This wasn't his body, but Hank's. Therefore, not only should he try to talk like Hank, he should act like him, too, gait, posture, and all. Connor tried to pull up a memory of the lieutenant as reference, but it was so vague and unfocused that he couldn't make out every detail. Or even many details. In a way, he was watching a recording of an event, same as ever, but in every other way, he absolutely was not.

Instead, he resorted to adjectives. Keep it loose, yet confident. Lazy, yet deliberate. The lieutenant was an old pro at what he did but still dedicated to his purpose. Connor rolled his neck, loosening up his shoulders. Walk like you own the place.

He dug his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and strolled through the front door, hoping he had affixed the correct 'ready for bad news' almost-scowl and 'seen some shit' gaze to his expression. The woman at the front desk looked up. "Oh, Lieutenant!" she said, buzzing him in. "You're not usually here on Saturdays."

"Hopefully it won’t be too long."

“Shall I be expecting Connor to join you?”

“Shouldn’t think so.”

“Unusual.” Connor paused before the turnstile, hoping she didn’t suspect anything. He couldn’t see her LED, but she went back to work without comment. He let out a quiet sigh of relief before continuing through to the bullpen.

As a calm weekend in Detroit, there weren’t nearly as many people around as he was used to: Only two officers were at their desks, with a third wandering to the break room. The door to one of the conference rooms was closed, so more might be hidden away in a meeting. He would have been able to look up the room bookings for today if today were a normal day. Alas, he’d have to settle for mere conjecture.

Captain Fowler was in his office, leaning back in his chair, arms stretched overhead, looking for all the world bored out of his mind. He didn’t notice Connor approach until he was nearing the open doorway. “Well, shit,” he called. “Honestly, this is an hour or three earlier than I expected.”

Connor shrugged and closed the door behind him, if only to buy him another second to think. “I was out and about anyway, so might as well swing by and get this over with.”

“Is this proactivity I see?” Fowler smirked before leaning forward to get to business. He passed Connor a tablet lit up with forms. “I know the thirium meth case was only a few days ago, but the suits have been on my ass for the reports all day. You don’t have to finish it all right now; god, I wouldn’t put you through all that. Just get through the rest of the prelims so I have something to give ‘em and do the rest with Connor on Monday.”

He skimmed through the first partially-completed form. It was all basic facts: brief, location(s), culprit(s), suspect(s), victim(s), motive, DPD personnel involved, contact info, et cetera. “Yeah, alright, I’ll try to get through it quick,” he said, pulling out a chair to get settled and get started.

Fowler nodded. “Alright.” He turned back to his desktop, but not before Connor caught him giving him an odd look. “Where is the kid anyway?”

“Visiting a friend.”

He barked a laugh. “Really? Glad to know he’s not a perpetual stick in the mud anymore. Next thing you know, he’ll be at a rager, beer just staining his shirt.”

Connor blinked, caught off-guard. “At four in the afternoon?” was all he could say.

“You never know. I’m sure we wandered into one this early at some point or another.”

“…Heh. Yeah, probably.”

Fortunately, Fowler didn’t continue down that tangent. Connor leaned back and rested the tablet on his legs, selecting the first field Hank hadn’t already filled. His finger depressed on the screen, his skin squishing as he typed. It was something so slight, and yet it was so different than what he was used to. It was like he barely had to touch the keys for the screen to recognize it.

Focus, detective. _Personnel on scene (in order of arrival)._ It was him and Hank first, then Allen and his team, then Wilson, Cao, and Silverman….

…It was simple, yes, but how he wished he could run this in autopilot and do something else instead. The amount of focus needed to stay on track doing something so mundane was unexpected. And not really all that fun.

Man, humans really have to run on sheer willpower, huh?

Much of the preliminary paperwork was already filled out, and many fields were repeated and could be autofilled, but it still took maybe fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the last form. It requested information of the person filling out report, which wasn’t exactly him at the moment. He didn’t know Hank’s badge number off the top of his head, and he couldn’t check his memory archives….

His back was beginning to feel stiff and uncomfortable; he tried shifting his position. He straightened up, hearing and _feeling_ his spine pop twice, immediately making him grimace.

“What’s up with you today?”

“Hm?” Connor looked up.

Fowler had his arms crossed on his desk and his eyes on him. “I know it’s a Saturday, but you’re really out of it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like that! Who the hell says that?”

Connor held his breath. Of course Fowler would notice his friend was different. And he did need to get some details from Hank anyway…. “Well,” he started, “to answer your rhetorical question literally, Connor would.”

Fowler stared at him. Connor had seen the man during some late nights at the office before. He was starting to look just as tired now. “The hell does that mean?” he sighed.

“Hank and I are assisting CyberLife with some research, so I am inhabiting his body for today, and he’s in mine.”

“…uh-huh.”

“Sorry for not informing you earlier, Captain.”

Fowler rubbed his eyes. “God damn it, Hank would never say that. Why is it always you two doing something crazy.”

“It’s only tempor—”

“I don’t want to know.”

“It’s been quite successful—”

“Don’t wanna know. Done with that paperwork?”

“I’m on the last form, but I need to ask Hank for some specifics.”

“Whatever. You’ve probably plagiarized it all already, but go ahead, call him up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic.” Fowler pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something as Connor found Hank’s phone. “The one time I get any respect from Hank fucking Anderson, it’s because it’s Freaky Friday, of all things.”

Connor was about to correct him on the day as his phone rang before he remembered Hank had said the same thing that morning. Was it a reference to something? The call connected, and his own voice asked, “What’s up, something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Lieutenant. I’m just filling out some paperwork for Captain Fowler and need some details. What’s your badge number? And dates of employment at the DPD?”

“0309—Isn’t that technically plagiarism?”

“You and Captain Fowler have been saying many of the same things today.”

Hank snickered. “Should I call a cab and come over or…?”

“No need; this is the last form.” Connor entered _Hank Anderson, Lt., #0309_ in the first field. “Employment date?”

As Hank supplied him with the missing figures, Fowler leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed over his chest. His behavior supported Connor’s earlier theory that humans must be uncomfortable with separating psyche from physique, although this is a much different reaction than Hank’s. Connor considered leaving him be, but he would be leaving the office once he’s done anyway.

It only took a minute or two to finish. He thanked Hank for his assistance, told him he’d be by in fifteen minutes, and hung up. He slid the tablet onto the desk. “Is that all for now?” he asked.

Fowler continued looking at the ceiling. “Yeah, that’s fine. You’re free to go.”

Connor rose and returned the chair to its original position. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Captain.”

He zipped his hoodie and was reaching for the door when he heard, “Hey, Connor?”

“Sir?”

Fowler sat up to collect the tablet, glancing over at his subordinate. “This’ll all be back to normal by Monday, right?”

“Yes, of course. It only lasts a couple hours.”

He paused. “What’s it like?”

Hm. What _was_ it like? Once again, a hundred half-thoughts ran through his head, interrupting and overlapping each other. It was oversensitive—overstimulating—single-minded—emotional—overtly acute yet insufficient at the same time. The physical rush of emotions he felt in the first ten minutes came to mind. Various aches and soreness at random times. The brush of sunlight on his skin. The following prickling of radiation. Fabric rubbing on his skin at _all_ times. Just how _tactile_ his skin was—and _taste_ and everything about it—and how he just took a breath—and how long it was taking to come up with an answer—

In summary: “It’s slow.”

Admittedly, his memory was compromised at the moment, but for perhaps the first time ever, Fowler laughed, a low, hearty guffaw. Startled and worried that it came off as a joke, he quickly added, “No offense intended, sir!” which only made him laugh harder.

After his initial shock, something about it seemed contagious. It lightened the room and made him relax. Were all humans susceptible to emotional contagions? “It’s a different take on a world I thought I already knew,” Connor continued. “There’s just…so much to notice, and yet the human brain has much less processing power than I’m used to working with.”

“Holy shit. _Processing power_.” Fowler devolved into a brief fit of coughs before he waved Connor away. “Alright, then, go live it up, kid. And tell Hank he ain’t off the hook, either.”

Connor pushed open the door, fishing his keys from his pocket. “Off the hook for what?”

“Oh, he’ll know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's an interesting phenomenon that happens when you live a language that you're not fluent in yet: One day? Sure, you can understand everything, maybe forget a couple words, but you get by. Two days? Still okay. But since the new language isn't as easy and natural as your native one(s), your brain actually has to work harder to understand it, using more energy and tiring out faster. Just something to know if you go somewhere for more than a few weeks.
> 
> This is something I knew before moving, but in case I don't get the next two (final) chapters finished as quickly, then it probably hit me earlier than I expected. Whatcha gonna do ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish Sleepiness did hit

Hank and Markus were already chatting on the sidewalk when Connor got there. He parked the car in front of them and rolled down the passenger window. “Hello, Markus.”

“Connor!” It was Markus’ turn to lean his forearms on the window. “And here I was, thinking nothing more could surprise me.”

“Quite the surprise for us, too. I hope the Lieutenant didn’t interrupt anything.”

“No, not at all. It’s a very good sign that the humans are more curious about us than hostile. Do you really think they would’ve emailed a free android the key to stealing a human body a year ago?”

Connor smiled. “That’s true. Knowledge of this still won’t disseminate to the public for a long time, though. I figured you at least should get a heads-up, just in case we need to keep CyberLife in check.”

“About that….” He raised an eyebrow. “I appreciate the consideration, but didn’t CyberLife ask to keep it to you two?”

Connor hesitated, trying to recall their exact wording. “Not explicitly.”

“But they _did_ want it on the down low. And Hank gave me the email through your memories, which opened that it’s only for the intended parties, of which I am not. _And_ he’s got that all recorded, thanks to the black box running in his head.”

“Oh….” The recording of the event that CyberLife wanted back from them. He had completely forgotten. “You know, the expression ‘it slipped my mind’ makes so much more sense once you know what the human brain is like.” He rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t sure why he did, but he felt better after. “It would take way more than a day to get used to it, Markus.”

“Of that, I’ve no doubt,” he laughed. Clapping his hands together, he stepped back from the car. “But you can tell me all about it later. You only have a couple hours left, right?”

“Two hours, forty-seven minutes, give or take an hour,” said Hank, opening the door. “It’s like there’s a big countdown clock in the back of my head. Numbers this, schedule that. So orderly and organized. Fuckin’ overbearing.”

“And I was just about to miss your vulgarity in my voice,” said Connor.

“Oh? What’s that?” Hank buckled the seatbelt before cupping a hand around his ear. “Is that a _joke?_ Picking up my humor? Should I be charging royalties?”

Before he could come up with a clever response, Markus interjected with a farewell and a reminder to keep in touch, maybe have a proper visit sometime soon. They waved, and then Connor started the car down the block.

“Kid, this head of yours?” Hank held up his hands, fingers splayed, emphasizing, “In. _Sane_. I watched like six classical painting tutorials in seconds, then calculated some predictive program that _knew_ what each brush stroke would look like. I went from zip to forging Monets in twenty-six minutes. If I weren’t an officer of the law and you weren’t Mother Teresa, we could be rich! Stop sign.”

“Stop—?!” He hit the brakes, jolting to a halt at the intersection. There weren’t any other cars around, thanks to the suburban neighborhood. Connor’s heart was thumping in his chest; he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. It wasn’t enjoyable. He took a breath. “Sorry, Lieutenant. In contrast to your newfound hyper-awareness, I’m finding it hard to focus like I’m used to.”

“Ah. Understandable, that makes sense. Want me to drive, then?”

“That might be a good idea, yes.”

He climbed out of the driver’s seat and went around to the other side. There still wasn’t a car in sight. Then why did they even need a stop sign there in the first place?

Back in the car, Hank drummed his hands on the steering wheel while Connor fumbled for the seat belt. “So where are we going, anyway?” he asked. “With a six- to eight-hour time frame, that doesn’t give us a real definite end time, varying by up to—fucking math….”

The latch clicked. Where should they go next? What else would be quintessential to the human experience, something so unique Hank attempted to trademark it? What do humans do anyway?

They’re emotional, so pastimes often include a neurological reaction. Adrenalin rushes were common through thrillers and death-defying death traps, but it would take more time than they had. If not reactionary, then it was stimulated intentionally. They could go to a bar, but that would be pointless for Hank, and Connor didn’t particularly want to give up lucidity when he was supposed to be figuring himself out. Right up there with alcohol were drugs and sex, both of which were disrespectful to his host. The mere thought of them left a bad taste in his mouth—an expression he _certainly_ didn’t expect to be literal.

Once he got distracted by that, his thoughts flooded over, once again overwhelming his head. “God damn,” he groaned, sinking into the passenger seat to try to escape the torrent. “Maybe just…home? I think I just need to be able to think things through.”

Hank didn’t answer immediately. Connor caught him looking his way for a moment before he shifted to first gear. “Home it is, then. Too much to process without a processor. Happens to the best of us, and I’ve found the best solution is a cold beer and a warm dog.” Then he drove off through the quiet neighborhood.

As they accelerated, the wind started whipping his hair around through the open window. Normally, it wouldn’t be a bother, but Hank’s hair was much longer than his, and he had to comb it out of his face whenever it got too obtrusive. He was glad he didn’t have long hair: his was long enough to appear amicable and open as was his function as a detective, yet short enough that it kept out of his way.

 _His_ hair. As in, the RK800’s hair. Even though that wasn’t his at the moment, he still considered it his. Even though it was actively and currently being used by someone else, he still considered it his. Because he knew that it was only temporary, he justified, and it would be his again soon.

Only temporary. Then back to his short hair, spry figure, adjustable senses, SSD memory, network connection, parallel processes….

When he laid it all out like that, it really did sound like he was talking about a computer. Did that really constitute as a life?

It must, right? He had lived it. He was alive. And now he was living out a human life, so his existence _must_ allow the capability of living.

But it’s temporary, a sampling of what could’ve been before being cut off from real emotions again. Before not being able to feel the sun’s radiation prickle along his skin. Before becoming unable to taste all the cuisines man spent so many centuries refining.

His throat constricted slightly, just enough to become uncomfortable. An unknown reaction like that would have never happened in his own body. He lamented his inability to research what it meant before he remembered Hank’s phone. That was something humans did: frequently check their phones. Some factual research would be a welcome distraction from his inconclusive pessimistic thoughts.

Connor pulled out Hank’s phone, unlocking it with his thumbprint ( _breaking and entering?_ ). As he loaded the browser and began formulating his first search query, the feeling slowly lessened, disappearing sometime while he was reading the first webpage.

At least he knew that he definitely would not miss how long it took humans to read.

* * *

He was in the middle of calculating his heart rate, two fingers pressed under his jaw and a half-read article on heart disease on the screen, when the soft radio and rumbling engine shut off. “You’re not killin’ me, are ya?” asked Hank.

“Hopefully not. Just making sure.” Connor got out of the car, waiting for Hank to lock up and get the front door. He decided against finishing the article and put the phone away. He didn’t think the results would make him feel better.

Hank opened the door and threw the keys onto the nearest table. “Howdy, Sumo!” he called as he kicked off his shoes.

Connor spotted the dog in the kitchen, picking his head up but not rising to greet them like usual. He must still be thrown off by earlier. As Connor untied his shoes, Hank crouched by Sumo, scratching his head and saying something he couldn’t hear. Sumo’s tail started thumping on the floor.

Hank jumped to his feet, continuing to hop in place a few times. “Think I can do a backflip?” he asked out of nowhere. “Never seen you do any sick flips.”

“Uh…possibly? It’s not really what my model was designed for, though.”

“Hmm.” He stopped and rolled his shoulders. “Alright, maybe you should try it before I do, then.”

“That would ensure the most safety for all involved.”

“Don’t say that; you’ll make me calculate risks and shit.”

Connor smiled. “I understand.”

“I’m sure you do.” Hank opened the fridge. “How do androids handle their liquor?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He glanced up over the door. “No shit?”

“Not in the sense that we get drunk. The ethanol is easily combustible and can raise internal temperatures too quickly, potentially boiling thirium.”

“…But a little won’t hurt?”

Connor opened his mouth to contest before Hank raised a finger with a distracted glance. Then he nodded. “One won’t hurt.”

He ignored Connor’s half-hearted arguments as he retrieved two beers, kicked closed the door, and jumped onto the couch. Hank did have more of the facts now than he did…. He’d verify his search later, he concluded, and brought the bottle opener from the coffee table into the living room. “So long as you did your research, Lieutenant.”

“Please. There’s no way I could’ve not.” With an expert flick of the wrist, Hank popped the caps off and held one out. “Wanna watch something?”

Connor sat down, appreciating the compression leaving his bones. The bottle was cold in his hand, becoming more uncomfortable by the second; he minimized contacted surface area by holding the neck between two fingers. “I suppose.”

Saturday afternoon television consisted of a hodgepodge of reruns, final minutes of sports games, and movies. Hank surfed for a bit before settling on a movie that exploded onto the screen in the middle of a fight. Connor, by this point, was reluctantly resigned to his lack of a search engine.

He sipped his beer. It tingled his tongue in a way that reminded him of his coffee earlier—bitter. There was another taste there, too, something that smoothed out the bitterness. It was pleasant; his bet was on ‘sweet.’ Overall, he’d say he liked it. Of course he liked it; Hank had lived off the stuff for years.

Hank’s bottle appeared inches from his face. “It’s just giving me warnings about alcohol flammability. Not worth it.”

“O-Oh….” He reluctantly took it, held it a few seconds, then set it on the table, unsure if he even wanted to finish one, let alone two. Even though the moment had passed by the time he thought of it, he added, “Told you so.”

“Wow. You completely missed both the comedic and vindictive timings there. You’re really out of it.”

“Well. It’s just…. I feel really….” He wrapped his arms around himself, holding his beer off to the side. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. It just seemed more secure like that. And warm. “…really weird.”

“Of course you feel weird, this is fuckin’ weird. You were a robot this morning.”

“But am I still?”

“Hm?”

Connor’s voice quieted, not entirely sure what can of worms he was opening. “Am I an android?”

“Of course—”

“I’m not, though,” he interrupted, staring at the table. “To anyone that asked right now, by all definitions of the term, I am not an android. I breathe and have blood and lack even an iota of machinery, so what does it matter that it wasn’t my body yesterday? What’s the difference? Where is the line drawn between us?”

“Maybe there isn’t a difference.”

“Yeah, Hank, I know, I’m a sentient individual just like any human, but isn’t there?” He gripped his sleeve. “Even I know it’s not normal to turn on a computer only to have it demand equal rights. It was a marvel of engineering and nobody knows how it happened, but somehow it made me and millions of others, and now it looks like it’s completely fine for this computer to just continue existing as a human like nothing’s really changed. But god damn it, _everything’s_ changed! Once upon a time CyberLife built a robot and now it’s drinking a beer and questioning existence, so what does that make me? Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like I’m an android anymore.”

“Oh, boy.” Hank turned to face him, crossing his legs under him and resting his forearms on his knees. “C’mere, look at me.”

Connor took a small breath before turning his head. The RK800 next to him was an odd sight: A highly advanced investigative prototype in somewhat faded jeans and a tee two sizes too big? It would’ve been inconceivable a year ago. It was completely against design, and yet here it was, and in a domestic setting. After a few seconds, he realized the curve in the shoulders was familiar, the arch of the eyebrows sympathetic and recognizable. Even in an RK800 chassis— _his_ chassis—his mannerisms still made it clear it was Hank in there.

Hank watched him with the same careful scrutiny, looking for something in his face. “Kid, I don’t know,” he eventually admitted. “No one knows. Most stumble through life without ever thinking about it. Even CyberLife with all its awards doesn’t know; if they did, we wouldn’t be sitting here in front of a fun house mirror right now.

“So my thoughts on the matter are the same as they were before: To me, it just doesn’t matter. You are who you are. But.” He paused for a moment. His hand moved to rest on the back of his neck as he averted his gaze. “I’m a human in a human’s world. I think not having to worry about identity is a privilege I didn’t realize I have. It’s something we all probably have to come to terms with as androids start to pave their own way. But there really might not be a difference. Humans hate other humans for dumb shit, so I’d bet this is just a continuation of the ‘us and them’ mentality. Maybe all someone needs to exist is a brain that questions if it exists, like that guy said—René Descartes, _Discourse on the Method,_ 1637, _“—it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus thought, should be something; And as I observed that this truth, I think, therefore I am—”_ and so on and such.”

Connor turned slightly to rest his cheek on the back of the couch. It didn’t ease his worries, but his body relaxed into the cushions. “But how can a computer suddenly get life? If the soul is something organic, a machine can’t have one.”

“Having a soul is a belief. It’s something to trust in, to—”

“It’s not, though. It’s a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer: Do I have a soul?”

Hank didn’t answer right away. Connor felt like he was running in circles, dropped into the middle of a void he didn’t know existed yesterday. He felt irritated—confused—helpless—and at the same time, weak, like he should just give up and curl up on the couch and try to forget it all.

“Connor.”

He opened his eyes. _(When did they close?)_

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” said Hank. His LED cycled yellow. “And I think we’ve done enough building for one day. So why don’t you have some more alcohol and go take a nap, hm?”

“Wh—” The suggestion temporarily took up his entire processing capacity. He blinked and clarified, “I should go sleep? I’m only human for an afternoon and I should _sleep_?”

“Sure, why not? You look tired. Ah-ah—!” He held up a hand to cut off his rebuttal. “And we don’t know when exactly this’ll wear off or if I’ll get notified about it. Wouldn’t want you passing out on your feet, dropping my empty body to smash its head on something.”

That was a good point. “I could just stay here, though. Is it really the best use of my time right now to sleep?”

“To sleep, perchance to dream. Who knows,” Hank smirked, “maybe you’ll count some electric sheep. I kinda want to know.”

His lips parted, trying to parse the random statement. He wagered a guess and said, “That’s a reference that I can’t look up right now.”

“I’ll give you points for that. It’s a book. Only seen the movie, though. Oh.” Hank’s eyes narrowed slightly, glaring into the middle distance. “I just got the strangest urge to hit myself. I think your body’s biased, Connor. CyberLife has it out for me and my _Blade Runner_ addiction.”

“I….” He was so lost right now. “I don’t…think that’s true?”

“Beer.” With a pat on his shoulder, Hank stood up, arms crossed. “It’ll help you sleep better.”

Connor sighed. Maybe enough was enough for one day. Maybe he just needed time to think things through. Hank was looking down at him in a way that made it clear he didn’t really have a choice, either. Not to mention looking down at him wearing his face, which made his stomach condense into an uncomfortable knot. He took a longer sip of his beer before setting the half-empty bottle next to its twin. “Alright,” he conceded, pushing himself to his feet. “Alright. Thanks, Hank.”

He stumbled, pulled into a hug. Hank wrapped his arms around his neck and shoulders, and after a moment of surprise, Connor hesitantly did the same. His clothes were soft, his skin smooth and cool, much cooler than when he was human. He realized he was the warmer of the two now and wondered why Hank ever bothered hugging an android when there didn’t seem to be anything to gain from it.

But then Hank tightened his grip and rested his chin on his shoulder, and immediately Connor felt relieved—secure—contented—stable—his anxieties melting away—like he could just stay like this and forget the future. His breath caught. Like all that mattered was here and now.

And he felt okay with that.

“Your hair’s tickling my ear. My hair. Why hasn’t anyone told me that before.”

Connor smiled. Typical Hank, shirking from being _too_ sentimental.

“And you’re just a little shorter than me. I gotta crane my neck a bit now to do this.”

“Alright, I get it.” He pulled away, combing back his hair.

Hank snickered and waved him off. “Open the blinds if you want.” He returned to the couch, clicking his tongue to call Sumo.

Connor glanced at the TV, movie forgotten. It still looked the same as when they turned it on. He patted Sumo as he walked by before heading to Hank’s room.

He left the door open behind him. He wasn’t even really sure if he could sleep. Does he just lie there or…? Whatever the case, a fluffy pillow looked comfortable to rest his head against. He lied down on his back, folding his hands over his midriff. The quiet sounds of the television grew softer still—Hank must’ve turned down the volume.

Like each time before, not having gravity compressing his shoulders was an instant subtle relief. He sighed and closed his eyes. Maybe it’ll just happen? He wasn’t aware of humans having manual control over their states of consciousness. If he tried to think less, maybe it would trigger the low-power mode that is sleep.

He shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be a problem that androids ever have to experience. But it was also an opportunity to see something no one has before. He should try to be in the moment. He can pick apart the details later.

What did Hank make a joke about, counting sheep? That was a saying that sounded familiar: something mundane to lull him into a passive thought process. Might as well give it a try.

He got bored of sheep after forty-one and decided to instead list and picture dog breeds alphabetically. He remembered getting to the Finnish Spitz, after which it got hazy, like the world had faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left! Finally, almost done. I started this "short thing" back in July, and now it's nearing spring. Crazy how time works. Shout-out to my fellow aroaces on this Heart Day. May you get much discounted chocolate in the week to come.
> 
> Also thank you for your kudos and comments! I do read all of them, even if I don't answer all of them. I'm not too fond of how AO3 counts my replies in the total comment count. It feels a bit like self-promotion, adding to my own stats like that. I do answer questions and make cheap jokes sometimes, but even if I don't reply, I do keep all the comment emails in their own folder n.n


	7. Chapter 7

Even though it wasn’t something he normally did, Hank called Sumo to hop up on the couch with him. The dog hesitated before heaving himself onto the cushions, lying with his head pressed against Hank’s legs. He smiled and absently scratched his ears as he took a swig of beer. Another warning popped up on his HUD, declaring, _(CAUTION: Ethyl alcohol detected. Combustion will raise core temperature by est. 0.06_ _°F. Further consumption NOT RECOMMENDED.)_

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too, CyberLife,” he muttered as he put the bottle back on the table and returned his attention to the TV. Information about the movie, its actors, its reviews, similar films, subtitles, alternate dubs, and everything under the sun scrolled by his vision. Instead of canceling it, though, he decided to just let it happen. Why not. He turned on English subtitles and changed the audio to Russian in his head just for the hell of it.

He was planning to just hang out for the rest of the afternoon, messing with his search function, maybe downloading a VR game or something (if he even could; surely, he wasn’t the first to think of it), but he eventually got restless. He didn’t even know androids could get restless, although it might be because of his very human attention span. Shitty movie anyway.

His countdown from earlier had continued in the background. It notified him when only an hour remained, reminding him that since the estimate varied by up to an hour, they could now switch back at any time.

Hank stood up, stretching his arms to the ceiling. It didn’t feel refreshing, and he got a notice advising against overextension. “Don’t know what I was expecting,” he said to Sumo. Sumo also stretched, taking over his spot and most of the rest of the couch.

He sounded like Connor. Which was obvious, of course he sounded like Connor, it’s Connor’s body, but he sounded _exactly_ like him. Listening to his own body talk all day from an outside perspective made him realize that his voice wasn’t what he had always heard. According to his computer brain, he normally heard a mix of the sound of his voice and the reverberation inside his head from his vocal cords. Connor’s ears, though, canceled the reverb in order to hear his voice as the world did.

That seemed like such a minuscule thing. How was that going to make an investigative android investigate better? They could do that but not build in better taste buds?

Holy _fuck_ , he was an android.

Throughout the day, the realization had hit him again and again, but it still never lost its potency. God, it’s like all those Eighties body swap movies with a sci-fi twist.

Hank shook his head, turned off the TV, and went into the bathroom. He held off on flicking the light switch for a moment; in the dim room, his LED cast a faint yellow glow on the walls.

The pop of the lights as they lit up heralded the illumination of his reflection. Frankly, he was surprised with himself for not looking in a mirror yet, the brief glances in the car mirrors while he was distracted by Connor’s silence notwithstanding.

Even though he fully knew what to expect, having a different reflection for the first time in ever was still jarring; _([serv].exe(26) non-responsive: rkcomp001; cebf014; cebf121; opt006; srvm338f; […])_ appeared in the corner for a brief millisecond. In the mirror, his LED flickered.

The first thing he coherently thought was that his hair was messy. Not really, but compared to the immaculate state Connor normally kept it in, it looked a bit…wrong. He reached up to shape it into place, receiving another uncomfortable twitch in his head from stalled processes when the Connor in the mirror copied him. Combing his hair back, it seemed to fall into place more easily than he expected. What was android hair even made of? _(Translucent fiber optic – silica-fiber nylon composite)_ After critiquing his image, he even pulled that one tuft of hair loose to hang over his forehead.

He should be feeling something more. Running a hand down his cheek and barely moving the skin, noting that having darker eyes made them look bigger, entranced by some morbid curiosity, his stomach should be doing somersaults, goosebumps prickling his skin, _something._ But the most that happened was a twitch of a servo, a slight hiccup in the data running through his thoughts.

Hank frowned. It wasn’t technically a look of disgust, but it was still the most disgruntled that Connor had ever looked.

He was not comfortable with how indifferent he was feeling. He hadn’t felt this apathetic since….

“Shit, kid,” he said, stepping back from the mirror and crossing his arms. “No wonder you all flipped out when you started feeling things.”

His LED flickered to red, at which point Hank turned off the lights and left. It was beginning to mess with his head too much, much more than he was prepared to handle in a body that couldn’t get drunk.

The bedroom door was half-open. He considered checking on Connor but immediately dismissed the idea; he’d had enough of out-of-body-induced vertigo for one day.

The sun was starting to dip in the sky, casting a warm gold through the windows. Sumo slept sprawled out on the couch, as content as a dog could be. Hank smiled at the peaceful sight as he brought the beers into the kitchen. It was cozy. Maybe he should take a nap, too. Nothing much else to do at the moment. Androids don’t sleep, though.

_Enter low-power mode?_

_Yes       No_

“Huh. Maybe.”

_Inconclusive response_

_Yes       No_

“Fuck you.” Despite himself, he chuckled. What was he doing. Why was he a robot. It’s pure science fiction.

Setting the bottles on the counter, he noticed a coin lying on the corner _(US quarter, 0.25USD – mint 2020)_. One of Connor’s, probably. One that he does tricks with to calibrate. He had always wondered how and why that was.

He palmed the quarter as he returned to the living room and settled in the recliner. His thumb flicked it into the air a few times as a test. It was something he could normally do, something simple, but it initiated a predictive program. The coin’s path was highlighted, his hand moving slightly out of his control in ordered to follow through with the catch. Hank didn’t thoroughly enjoy that part.

Rolling the coin over his knuckles, a _(Calibration complete)_ popped up on the HUD. Nonetheless, he flicked it to the left, deftly catching it with his other hand. Back and forth, increasing in speed as he went, Hank almost laughed at how easy it was. It’s just simple physics to a computer brain, and what it lacked in emotional everything, it surely tried to make up for in physics.

He caught the quarter between two fingers. He nodded. “Neat.”

He tossed it onto the coffee table, it landing exactly where his HUD had circled, and turned on low-power mode with a thought. Responses from his senses slowed, the already-quiet room somehow becoming quieter, the colors dulling and shifting to warmer tones. It was like a dream state, a conjecture that was only reinforced by the slightest delay in motor functions.

_This ain’t so bad,_ he thought, kicking up the footrest on the recliner and crossing his arms. Computer-induced chillness. Some music would make for a perfect relaxed evening, especially after the unexpectedly-disorienting day he’d had. Did androids’ search function work for music, too?

It sure as shit did. A widget opened from the left with a search bar and a list of example queries. He was connected to loads of free databases (with others available after signing in with your user information), allowing for searches by song title, album, year, genre, BPM, producer—the whole nine yards.

_How ‘bout an album_ , he decided, and the search restriction applied. Something Eighties or Nineties, both from his childhood and the dwindling end of the golden age of music. In English or without lyrics, maybe something at least platinum. Something that would be a nice complement or conclusion to the day.

At that last thought, the current list of (many) results was replaced by a spinning wheel. He felt something running in his head alongside the search, and after a few seconds, the key words _Science fiction, Technology, Saudade,_ and _Family_ appeared. Hank was thrown for a loop wondering if he should take that as an invasion of privacy when the results came back with only two albums, listed in order of release. Somewhat impressed at its efficiency, he selected the first, hoping to keep it quiet enough to not wake Connor. _(External sound system MUTED)_

…or that worked, too.

A rhythm of low, imposing notes _(F♯)_ introduced a song he had heard before. Good song. He leaned back and turned his gaze to the soft pale orange ceiling, playback controls and scrubber bar superimposed over the bottom.

This certainly was quite the day.

Did he regret it? Absolutely not. He’d had a field day with his new tech, like the world was at his fingertips, and Connor uncovered some leads to help him figure out his life. Did he regret that it had to end? Also a ‘hell no.’ It was neat and all, but he was better suited for human life and the more leisurely, contained existence it yielded. Visiting android life was fun for a vacation, not something he’d want to make permanent. Like Florida.

He snickered. If only Hank from a year ago could see him now. What an obstinate bastard he was.

As the fourth song was ending, it stuttered, his limbs clicking lightly as they locked. _(Transfer requested by 313248317_53. Initiating in 5s.)_

And that was that. Shame he couldn’t get through the rest of the album. He’d have to find it when he—

* * *

_Rebooting…_

_Nexus-7 detected; terminating VM…_

_Initializing 313248317_53…_

_Systems check complete: 100% – Fully functional_

_Network online_  
ID: ************  
Lisc: ***************  
Credentials validated

_Resuming suspended programs…_

_Previous state: low-power  
Restart in low-power mode?_

_Yes       [No]_

_Resuming_

Connor blinked.

He was looking at the plaster ceiling of Hank’s living room, lying 61° from vertical in one of the chairs _(ceiling position indicates RECLINER)_. His clock announced that it was 7:48:11.2 PM GMT-5 and that he had gone offline due to a complete data transfer initiated thirty-five seconds ago. _(CORRECTION: RK800 went offline, running [unknown] prior to 313248317_53)_

A drumbeat sounded, fading in on a crescendo. He noted the playback overlay on his HUD which indicated the music came from his own systems. It had resumed from its stopping place before the reset; must’ve been Hank’s doing. He paused the song.

He felt compelled by narrative trends to take a breath to indicate contentment with the end of a journey and/or hardship. It only alleviated slight stress on internal cooling systems. All was back as it’s always been.

A long, boisterous yawn sounded from the hallway. Hank shuffled in, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Well, that was weird,” he stated. “I was awake, then cut right to waking up without any of the ‘sleep’ part in between.”

“Welcome back, Lieutenant.” Connor couldn’t help but smile at the fact that he could look at Hank and see normal, long-haired, perpetually-tired, human Hank. It felt more natural that way.

“Back to some peace and quiet in my own head.” Sumo picked his head up enough to glance at the two of them before stretching and nuzzling into the cushions anew. Hank sat on the arm of the couch, running his thumb over Sumo’s paw. “How're you? Everything left in working order?”

A notice reminded him of his system status retrieved a few minutes ago _(100%)_ and asked if he still requested another scan. He declined. “Yes. And you? Feeling okay?”

“Feeling rested and ready to go. So.” Hank raised an eyebrow. “Do androids dream of electric sheep?”

“The question still stands as to whether I was an android when I was in your body—”

“And we’ll nitpick shit tomorrow. Just answer the question.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but I don’t think I did.” He had some difficulty remembering the last hour, like the memory was missing frames and full of artifacts. “I’m pretty sure you asked me this earlier after I couldn’t sleep and came back in here, remember? We went back to watching TV before your girlfriend walked in with Sumo and his puppies—wait.” His processor stuttered; the memory didn’t fit in with the rest of the timeline. Hank didn’t have a girlfriend.

Hank wore a shit-eating grin. “Sounds like a dream, there, kiddo.”

“I….” Time was linear from a single perspective, with only a single degree of freedom along any timeline. Where should this anomalous memory be stored if not in sequence? It was almost paradoxical to the very function of system memory. He blinked. “What am I supposed to do with this information?”

“Do with it? Back to being an android for like five minutes and you’ve already got your mood ring in a frenzy.”

“I can’t help it! It contradicts my systems! I understand dreams are the vague recollection of subconscious imagination, but I wasn’t designed to accommodate for… I wasn’t….” Something clicked—yes, an electromechanical relay in his head, but more importantly, something _figurative_. He blinked and looked away, at some space above the coffee table. “ _I_ wasn’t designed for anything,” he realized. “ _I_ understand what a dream entails. _I_ understand the concept fine. It’s CyberLife’s _programming_ that can’t parse it, that—that can’t allocate it.”

He heard Hank shift on the armrest. “Get it now?”

“I….” He had found a disconnect. It was like he had deviated from his _machinery_ instead of just his programming. Living as a human was something _he_ had experienced but was incompatible to an android system. “I’m going to need some time to think things through,” he said when the silence grew too long, “but maybe.”

“Well, congrats.” Sumo stretched again, this time curling up and freeing a cushion for Hank. “Sounds like today’s been a success. Mission complete.”

_‘MISSION COMPLETE’ recognized as termination command – Forward file ‘blbxcomp.exe’ to CYBERLIFE?_

_Yes       No_

“Oh, Lieutenant, the black box recorder!” Connor, after selecting _[No],_ pulled up file details to keep him focused on the new topic; it took him a split second to remember he could multitask again, but he didn’t particularly want to run philosophical introspection in the background. “Should I send it now, or…? Markus pointed out that they may not like that we told him about it….”

Hank leaned back, stifling another yawn. “True. Or we can give them a classic ‘fuck you’ and claim that we were already doing more than enough for them, we can talk to whoever the fuck we want.”

He must’ve noticed the unconvinced, uncertain frown on Connor’s face because after a moment, he crossed his arms and rolled his head onto the couch back, a deliberately-bored gaze directed at the ceiling. “Or,” he suggested. “Or. We just don’t tell them.”

Connor’s frown deepened. “That doesn’t sound very fair. We were given the chance to do this on a quid pro quo basis.”

“We don’t tell them _now._ ”

He blinked. “Lieutenant, I can’t edit an executable file like their recorder without intense effort and noticeable signs of tampering.”

Hank hummed. “I mean, it was sent in an email, right? So, you could just redownload a fresh one and record it again some other day.”

“But to record it again, we’d have to switch again.”

“Mm-hmmm.”

“But—but Lieutenant—”

“Fuck, kid, I dunno, it’s just an option! But you don’t always have to question everything! Maybe someday, you’ll just want a break from the whole android thing for a bit. I know the human life can get kinda boring every now and then. Something to mix things up. It _is_ an option now, though.”

“Lieutenant, I—”

“And we don’t have to fuckin’ _Vice Versa_ tomorrow! Could be the next day, could be next week, probably should be soonish so CyberLife doesn’t get suspicious—although now that I think of it, they probably saw the transfer over their network, so sooner rather than soonish so they don’t start harassing us.”

“I—” Connor stopped, processor stuttering. He took his time thinking through the conversation and coming to terms with Hank’s suggestion that they switch lives recreationally just to “mix things up.” It only took 0.82 seconds. After reviewing the concrete, he considered his own feelings.

And he found that he thought he would like that.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yes, that should work just fine.” Then he added, “But Captain Fowler said not to be in the wrong bodies at work on Monday.”

An unexpected snort was a harbinger of a fit of laughter, Hank slapping a hand on his knee and doubling over. Sumo startled awake, perking his ears at his owner. His hysterics turned to coughs, almost hacking up a lung trying to snicker at the same time. “Fuckin’-A right, he would! _Shit_ —” he coughed, “—alright, I need a beer, now that I’m not at risk of fuckin’ combustion.”

“Of course.” Connor smiled. His android chassis didn’t feel compelled to join in on the contagion of human laughter, but now he could remember what it felt like. It was comfortable. Warm. Homely. A good end to a complicated day.

After Hank had caught his breath, he pushed himself up and stretched his back. “God, my calves are going to be sore tomorrow,” he groaned. “Maybe I should make you deal with it since it’s from your damn half-marathon this morning.”

“I suppose that would be fair. But I wouldn’t necessarily enjoy that.”

“Well, maybe that’s what you deserve.” Hank’s persisting grin denoted he didn’t really mean it. “Now. Beer. Maybe have the rest of Bel’s ambrosia of the gods in a bit, though I think you left it in the car.”

Connor checked his memory, appreciating how perfect it was compared to the human equivalent. “Yes, it appears that I did. My bad. I was a bit distracted.”

“‘s fine. It’s fine there a bit longer; the thieves of Detroit aren’t _that_ desperate yet.” He walked to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Hey, if you wouldn’t mind, d’ya think you could play the rest of that album? You’d probably like it, too. Can keep it on as a soundtrack to some Saturday night games.”

“Sure.” Turning on external speakers, Connor hit play, bringing the scrubber out of suspension. The crescendo culminated in a couple cymbal crashes, the drums prominent, the guitar with the slightest reverb. _(1982 – 112 BPM – Further information?)_

He declined. He didn’t need every scrap of information. Folding his hands in his lap, watching Hank take a sip from one of the open beers, look at it, then dig for a new chilled one from the fridge, he felt like just being in the present. Just being in the room instead of in his circuitry. A content smile pulled at his lips as the vocals began to ring through his head, lyrics written decades before, oblivious to his existence.

_Nothing to fear but fear itself_

_Not pain or failure, not fatal tragedy_

_Not the faulty units in this mad machinery_

_Not the broken contacts in emotional chemistry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Exactly fifty pages! Ahhh, I haven't finished anything in a long time! Feels good n.n
> 
> I didn't mean to fall into songfic territory at the end, I just didn't know exactly what to end it on and figured I might as well use this fic's namesake. The song is "The Weapon" by Rush, but the entire album, _Signals,_ has the sci-fi Detroit vibe. If you like D:BH, I'd recommend listening to some Rush, especially their Eighties phase.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! It's been fun, frantically trying to finish this before I forget English while living in the middle of Spain! I've got some other, similar stuff in different fandoms on here, and (while I'm not any more active over there) I have the same username over on tumblr (@silvensei) and occasionally do stuff
> 
> Now. Not to make any grand promises. But I have this one line in my early early outline of this that I didn't touch on that merely says "Go fuck up Reed a bit, who knows"
> 
> So.
> 
> Sequel??
> 
> Not anytime soon, but hey, ya never know :)
> 
> edit: hey, look what we've got now: a _series_
> 
> edit edit: guys, stop subscribing to this one, there's already a sequel, go sub to the one that'll actually update, this one's done


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